Doll
by Toeba Saki
Summary: Darkness. Chalk white, pale gold, cerise... and that scream: “HELP ME!” Was this real? Or is he going insane? No. Materialism meant that all that you can touch is real. And he could feel the cold touch of porcelain beneath his fingertips... AU, ONE-SHOT!


**Disclaimer: **I do not own BLEACH or Ulquiorra Schiffer, Tite Kubo does; I do what I do out of fun and I make no money from writing this. I own the character Shinto Akira and also, my darling girlfriend, TheBlondeMidget owns Ulquiorra's abusive stepmum, Unara.

**WARNINGS:** Mystical stuff, weirdness, abuse, suicide, blood…

**Summary: **Darkness. Chalk white, pale gold, cerise... and that scream: "HELP ME!" Was this real? Or is he going insane? No. Materialism meant that all that you can touch is real. And he could feel the cold touch of porcelain beneath his fingertips... AU, ONE-SHOT!

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**~Doll~**

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Darkness.

Chalk white, unhealthy, intimidating, cold.

Pale gold, the broken wings of a fallen angel.

Cerise… all the swirling blood of a dying sunset…

"HELP ME!"

Sharp and loud and wild and insane and needy and breathless and kill kill _kill_…!

"Hah…!" A quiet, forced-back gasp from trembling bloodless lips.

A long, bony hand lifted to push back sweaty raven hair from a sharp, handsome, young face. Green eyes closed gently. Cold. Tranquil. With a dull light of too-early wisdom of agony.

He turned to his side, slender, but fairly muscled chest wheezing for air in the unwelcome suffocation of the nightmare. Black-nailed fingers, a last cry of defiance, gripped onto the pillow, pawing at it to try, calm his rapidly pounding heart slamming against his ribcage intently, trying to yank him out of bed to _do_ something.

But what…?

No matter how many times the colors and the cry for help came back to haunt him, he could never put his finger on _what_ it exactly meant…

Did it mean anything at all, actually…?

A weak glance at his alarm clock told him it would be time to get up either way. With a small, muffled groan he reached over to push the button then sat up and slowly, almost methodically followed his morning routine. Shower, brush teeth, dry hair, dress up, pack bag, walk down stairs…

Almost out of instinct, his head snapped to the side when his stepmother's slap came and he briefly touched his pale cheek, ignorant of her yelling as he went to put his shoes on and his jacket then left for school. Last year, then college and he'd be free from the witch. That kept him going anyways…

If only his father had been home…

…at least the witch would be tamer then. But what did his father care about the son he managed to smack into his late wife's belly on one sweaty and lust-drunken night? Papers and law-crap were more important, and he, Ulquiorra, supposed that was how he would be with his own child if he ever decides to have a family, simply because he knows no better.

Though rather, Ulquiorra would be happy to save womankind from having to be involved with him, let alone have kids and all that merry crap…

Briefly, his fresh bruise from the previous night's beating aches when someone bumps into him on the busy street and he is forced to rub the tender spot to calm the dull hurt.

He would be able to fight back...

…if the witch let him eat properly and didn't attack him with a chair…

He stopped for a moment when something caught his eyes.

He couldn't… believe it…

Darkness.

Atop a building, not too high, but high enough to be dangerous, balanced a person. A teenage girl, in dark clothes, the toes of heavy boots peeking down at the concrete below…

Chalk white, unhealthy, intimidating, cold.

Her complexion was pale, almost deathly so, similar to Ulquiorra's own unearthly white skin. It stretched over long, thin limbs and a way too slim body that was still somehow so eye-catching.

Pale gold, the broken wings of a fallen angel.

A long mane of white-blonde hair fluttered behind her in the light wind, flaring and spreading, swirling around her form in an enticing dance of soft locks.

Cerise… all the swirling blood of a dying sunset…

Her eyes lowered themselves to him to show a cool, reserved gaze, hidden under the protective shade of long, black lashes, the color an intense blend of crimson and orange.

Ulquiorra observed silently, a beauty unmatched by any other he's ever seen. Who was she…?

Black-painted lips trembled softly, slender arms spread out to her sides and in the sudden serene silence that settled around only the two of them in the noisy street, a pair of pearly white, feathery wings flapped behind her... then they were gone again and she was falling…

"Akira…!" The name came to his lips before he even knew what he was saying and he was running, dashing forward to catch that mirage into his arms and save her from certain death.

When the slight weight of the girl dropped into his arms, he fell to his knees harshly and shuddered, hand moving to grab a wrist to check for a pulse…

…freezing in shock when instead of warm skin he found cold porcelain… and instead of a smooth surface his fingers traced a ball-joint.

Jerking back from her, he stared down at the doll in his arms, painted blush of painted ecstasy on porcelain cheeks, glassy fear of imaginary death in empty glass eyes…

What…was going on…?

His hands slipped the next second and she was gone, just a game, just a lie, just air.

Ulquiorra sat there, dazed, staring, lips faintly agape in sudden shock.

Someone shook his shoulder and he looked up at the stranger. Watching him uncertainly for a moment, he then stood and brushed himself off as his mind registered he still had to go to school.

Silently, he went through the day, stoic and cold to the world that ignored him altogether. Walking home, he paused by the building, _that_ building, to see if she was there. She, Akira.

What a peculiar name, he wondered to himself. Why a masculine name for a girl…?

How curious that the name just came to him, all of a sudden when he's never heard it before. Was he going crazy…?

Ulquiorra did not venture on that idea for too long. He was a firm believer of materialism, thus all that he could perceive with all five senses definitely existed. Feelings too, since they were nothing more than a chemical reaction of our brain. He learnt that in biology and finally settled with the knowledge that he could indeed fall in love if another person had the right pheromones. That information was calming and very convenient.

That did not stop him from quietly regarding every ludicrously enamored romanticist with a cool, disdainful glance that spoke louder than any snide comment he could have made.

He realized he had been staring at the rooftop of that building for too long so he turned away and evenly strode on towards home.

He got lucky, the witch (Unara, might as well mention her name already) was out at that time so he snatched some food for himself and ate as swiftly as his languid mannerisms allowed then disappeared into his room as if he didn't even exist. Locking the door twice, he went to his bed and took out a book to read in peaceful quiet.

The book was boring and after a couple of hours of stifling yawns he noticed he was really nodding off: the physical education in school always wore out his underfed body. He changed into a pair of black sweatpants and a black shirt then lay down to sleep, pulling the covers up to his nose out of old habit. A few minutes later, he was quietly snoozing in his bed…

…but not for too long.

Barely a few hours later, he was out of bed, unlocking and tearing up the door of his room, racing down the stairs and yanking his shoes up in a shocking, very out-of-character frenzy. He didn't even hear Unara's indignant shriek as he was running down the streets, the strain on his lean body almost unbearable, air barely coming to his lungs and his eyes…

His eyes wide with horror, tearless and bloodshot from the cold wind that slapped into his face but he just ran and ran, sprinting like never before.

The swooshing, loud noise of a steel giant rushing towards its tiny prey haunted his ears, the sight of a train speeding forward, about to hit that small, slim figure in front of his mind's eyes… it was impossible to forget it. For a moment, he wondered if he would be too late…

But as he noticed that thin form standing on the tracks with her arms outstretched to the sides and head tilted back as her bleached blonde hair whipped and swirled around her soft face… and the wings flaring out for just a second, bright and pearly and blinding his vision… oh no… that was the headlight of the late night train racing towards her…

Unseeing and fearless, Ulquiorra leapt forward, his body crashing into hers and he yanked her to the side, protectively lying atop her back to shield her even from the harsh wind of the train speeding past…

Panting heavily, his muscles aching and cramping, he rolled off of her and closed his eyes to catch his breath before he spoke.

A minute passed in silence… save for his _own_ breathing…

He tensed then and forced his hurting body to sit and pull the other form into his arms.

Porcelain cheeks uncovered from white-blonde silk as the doll's head tipped back, a liar's smile on shiny, black-painted lips and no light in the glassy cerise eyes…

Ulquiorra wheezed for air, his hands jerking and his body falling back limply when the doll disappeared again. Silently, he lifted his hand and touched his own sweaty forehead, eyes dazedly staring up at the starry midnight sky.

Why was the world always… always fucking with him…?

Stumbling at first, he stood and brushed himself off with shaky hands. The painful tremors of the adrenaline exiting his system throbbed through him and he walked back home numbly, barely registering that his palms were freshly bruised in the fall and his pants tore at the knees.

It was impossibly peaceful afterwards. His nightmares went back to being the same as usual, just colors, but now he didn't wake in cold sweat since he knew those were just swirling images and impressions of Akira.

A month passed and nothing happened. Every day was the same: he would pass _that_ building twice a day and stop for ten minutes each to see if she would turn up, but she never did. Before going home, he took a detour to the rail where he yanked her out from in front of the train and waited another ten minutes, in vain.

He was almost convinced he would never see her again and despite the thought being convenient, it was not pleasant at all… or calming.

Then that night again, he was jerked from his dream to a horrid image of that thin girl leaning against the wall in a building and bleeding to death. Without second thoughts and with a pounding heart, he found himself on the streets again, running to find a house that looked like the one in his dreams.

Not this one. No, not that either. No. Still not it. Where was it? Where was she?! What was happening to her…?! Was she still alive at all…?!

There…!

Finding it, he tore the door open and the disgusting, nauseating scent of mould and dirt and old, dried blood filled his nostrils so suddenly he started gagging, pressing a hand to his mouth as he stumbled up the stairs of the apparently empty apartment to another door. He twisted the knob and finding it open, he pushed the door in to see what was inside the dim room…

Sitting against a wall, head gently tilted to the side, white blonde silk falling caressingly over one pale porcelain shoulder, glassy cerise eyes staring numbly ahead, parted black-painted lips cold as ice.

Blood.

Blood trickling down chalk white fingertips.

Fingertips that twitched.

Ulquiorra released an unwelcome gasp of shock as he rushed forward to touch the girl's throat to feel her pulse and this time his trembling fingers met flesh.

Chilly, barely throbbing flesh.

He yanked his shirt of, tore it in half and wrapped either half around one blood-drenched, razor-raped wrist. His hands moved jerkily as he tied the knots of the makeshift bandages, green eyes shifting around in search of a phone. Needed to call the ambulance… save her…

"Hn…!" A gurgling, breathless breath, a half-moan of pain in her throat and her cerise eyes were suddenly fixed on him, almost begging.

Ulquiorra stared, transfixed by that gaze. His shock-shaky hands gripped her slippery fingers and he leant closer, the moment absolutely inappropriate and the notion unfamiliar, but he knew they both desired it…

Slightly dry lips met lipstick-moist cold ones and the silence was still and wise and beautiful.

He drew back, eyes flickering for a moment before he stood and searched for that cell phone, called the ambulance, had her taken in, talked to the police…

Ulquiorra stood mutely by the grave, the rain softly, just very gently pitter-pattering against his stiff body and the lone white rose he laid on the fresh, otherwise empty tomb. His gaze, tranquil and deeper than the forests they were colored after, silently caressed the name on the stone.

_Shinto Akira._

He took a slow step back.

Then another.

And another; gradually backing away from the grave, all the way out to the exit of the cemetery, not minding the strange stares he got from people.

_I will never turn my back on you…_

**The End**

**Please read and review!**


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